Whitacre
by ClassyMuse
Summary: The priority was to get the Impala up and running. The stereo would have to wait. Her is a result of that. Season 2-ish.


Night had fallen on the road, Sam was asleep, and all was silent. The latter didn't settle well with Dean ever since wreck. In silence he could hear every nagging thought in his head. All the thoughts ran miles around like the road so far stretched. What did his father mean about Sam. Protect him, and if he goes dark side, kill him. Dean knew this was really important but he just wished that he knew what to protect Sam from. In hindsight he should have asked. In hindsight he should have not been on death's doorstep and John would still be alive. He needed to get away from the thoughts for a while or else he was going to go insane, get obsessive, and then he would have to deal with Sam.

Music, hell just a radio talk show, gave him something else to focus on. Dean didn't want to think about the prospect of saving the world or keeping Sam from going rogue. It was a loaded thought and background noise while driving lifted the weight for a little while.

As with rebuilding anything, humans included, the post-wreck Impala had its glitches. At that point Dean didn't care and just wanted to get back on the road, back to his definition of normalcy. A few things had to be sacrificed in the car for the time being, such as the radio. Now he regretted it.

The knob turned, but the station never changed. When driving for so long on one station he heard it change to several drastic styles of music. Usually he turned it off, but that was when Sam was awake and he had something to distract him with. Tonight he couldn't handle his little brother's snoring. It was like he was sitting next to Darth Vadar.

Reluctantly Dean turned on the radio, hoping against hope that it would be a rock station. He would even take a talk show at this point.

Tonight Dean Winchester wouldn't be so lucky. The hunter didn't even get static.

No, he got NPR.

He hated everything about that station. The way the commentators talked he compared to the way a funeral director or hospice doctor talked. It was creepy. They all seemed arrogant and displeased with everything they announced.

Then there was the music. Would it have killed them to play anything from the last century? Wait, they probably would have played some jazz, or something old like that.

Tonight they were playing some choir stuff. Oh that was a million times better, but something was better than nothing. Maybe the annoyance of church music would keep him awake down these long stretches of road.

The show was just beginning from what he was hearing. "Tonight we present assorted choral works of composer Eric Whitacre performed by the Brigham Young University Singers…"

_Mormons singing stuff by another dead guy_, Dean chimed. After a bit of silence he heard the deep hum reverberate from his speakers. He cautiously turned the volume up to hear the voices crescendo. What he was hearing was slightly impressing him.

The choirs he had been forced to hear in the past ranged from a bunch of old ladies at Pastor Jim's church and the dumb school assemblies where the whole school had to sit for an hour and hear their peers before some big show or contest. Neither was good, in fact one school out in the middle of Oklahoma was just four guys; he didn't know much about music but he could tell when the guys were off pitch. It was pain to his ears. Dean wasn't what you call musically educated, often pigeon-holing himself with his tapes. Now they were gone. He had to improvise, suck it up, and tolerate NPR until something better came on when they got out of broadcasting range.

Dean had got the gist of the five minute piece, surprised it wasn't religious. It was about sleep, the lack of, the joys of, everything about it with the exception of nightmares. Couldn't complain about that, it was all true. What he noticed was the shift between what seemed like a bright and optimistic tone turned a little sour but resolved by the quiet end. It was weird, but kind of cool at the same time how people were able to write like that. Dean gave mental points for that. The commentator, in that boring robotic tone he had, announced it was called "Sleep" (go figure) and it was arranged fairly recently, some time in his teens. _So this Whitacre guy ain't dead yet? _he thought.

Just as one piece ended another began, but it had a twist; a piano accompanist. The song started quick, but the voices didn't seem mixed, mostly female.

When Dean pictured choir girls singing, he didn't get the porn image in his brother accused him of, Dean thought they were geeky, wearing outfits in plain colors that did nothing for his imagination.

No one looked good in those robes or dresses, simple as that.

The voices pulled him in, subtly reminding him of water, the kind that didn't have spirits or monsters lurking for a kill to get even. Everything about it ebbed and flowed like a quiet lake, one where he would stop and enjoy long before pulling Sam back in the life or had to go fight some ghost haunting and killing in it. It was so chill and relaxing. He got the hint when "slow swinging sea" was sung. From there it was just long tone voices returning back to the ebb and flow he had enjoyed moments before. Part of that enjoyment died not when the piece was over or when the commentator came back on to announce the title of the track, but the fact it was called "The Seal Lullaby". Mental manliness points hit a low point. Just a little.

Like the first track Dean just barely missed the intro, but he was curious and turned the volume up a little more. Any more than that Sam would be sure to wake up. It was a quiet high pitched climb to a higher note, "My son, my son, my son…." It got a little louder but it sounded like the voices were clashing. It sounded good, but it was just an uncomfortable build up. It resolved itself loud and clear, "Absolam." It got quiet again save for one solitary male voice. From there it was a jumbled but eerily organized voices echoing, "My son." over and over again in every voice. It was bleak. He didn't care for that, not after everything he had gone through in the past year with Sam and their dad. The name, Absolam, sounded familiar. _Wasn't he the son of David?_ he thought, trying to dig deep into his memories at Pastor Jim's. _Yeah, he was the one who got killed._ It kind of hit him that this was about when David wept.

The piece was a few minutes in and Dean found himself a little overwhelmed by what he was hearing. It wasn't exactly sadness or despair. He wouldn't be able to explain to you if you asked, but first he would deny left and right that he was listening to NPR in the first place. It was an uncomfortable realization that, his father's death only two weeks prior, this was probably going through his head while Dean laid there in that goddamn hospital bed, talking to a reaper. Then he thought about what Sam. Before Sam had left for Stanford John went on and on about betrayal. Absolam betrayed his father but still wept for him when he was slain. John probably knew about Sam's destiny (god, he hated that word and concept). He had to have mourned that loss. The uncomfortable build up of the voices began again and it seemed to be a bit too much for him to handle at the moment.

It resolved again, but not at the expense of his emotions. He thought about Sam, his fate, again and again. Dean would break if anything were to his happen to his little brother, someone he swore to protect, even if that meant selling his soul. He would weep like David.

The piece had been playing for over ten minutes. In ten minutes Dean rode the emotional rollercoaster and it pissed him off. Music never did that to him, never. Why was this so different?

The piece had finished and the commentator came back on. "That was 'When David Heard' arranged by Eric Whitacre. That concludes the choral half of the show, when we return we will begin the second half featuring his instrumental ensemble arrangements."

_About time,_ he thought. Dean didn't know when Sam didn't wake up, he was surprised he slept through all the voices. He used that time to pull himself together, for his pride's sake.


End file.
